HE IS NOT DEAD.

A YOUTH ON THE BRINK OF MONKHOOD IN 1971

Lauds,
the walk from cell
to cloister,

light of the divine sun,
birdsong from trees,
wind’s gallop,

interior prayer,
the inner discourse,
hard put to do so.

With God nothing
is impossible,
confidence in faith,

Dom Leo had said,
trust, faith.
I saw her lay there,

arms wide,
invitingly warm,
I placed my fingers

into the stoup,
made the cross over breast
and entered.

Smell of incense,
soft movement of monks,
light through high windows,

God is light,
the old peasant monk
had said humbly

walking from the woods
of the abbey,
and I had kissed

each breast in turn,
lipped, mouthed, 
narrow road to God,

narrow the road
and rock to God,
indeed,

Dom Joseph had told,
that time on the beach
with Gareth and George.

I handled the prayer book
with care,
opened a page,

fingered down.
Finger here,
she said,

opening wide,
a bell rang,
tolled loudly,

the abbot tapped wood,  
silence within,
hush the thoughts, 

Deus,
in adiutórium
meum inténde,

my lips are opened,
see this,
she said, 

Dómine,
ad adiuvándum
me festína,

God lives,
I mused,
he is not dead.